


Hustle

by SkadizzleRoss



Series: Synchronicity [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Androids causing problems because they can, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Deviant Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hacking, M/M, Petty Acts of Subterfuge, Pool & Billiards, Possessive Upgraded Connor | RK900, Pre-Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), RK1700 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27499849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkadizzleRoss/pseuds/SkadizzleRoss
Summary: What do two deviant spybot androids do with their free time? Whatever they damn well like. Sometimes it's minor acts of rebellion; sometimes it's hustling pool in a middle-of-nowhere bar.In which Connor makes good use of his assets, and Nines admires the view.
Relationships: Connor/Upgraded Connor | RK900
Series: Synchronicity [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1444426
Kudos: 59





	Hustle

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little side-moment in a longer story (viewable [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20111713/chapters/47642542) or through the Series links below), but this can stand alone. The key points: Connor and Nines fled their job as Arctic spybots to wander pre-revolution America and do whatever they like (mostly each other).

2039-04-15  
_Tilden, Nebraska_

They step through a tinted glass door into a dark that tastes of beer, stale sweat and chalk.

Connor nods in approval, tucking his sunglasses up to look from the stained drop-in ceiling to an old, faded carpet of indeterminate color.

They thread through the tables towards the bar, treading on subflooring that’s gone soft after too many years of too little maintenance. Nines doesn’t voice his distaste. It’s Connor’s night, and Connor’s choice. There’s three pool tables. All occupied, pool cues hovering pensively over scuffed and faded felt.

It’s a surprise that the bartender asks for IDs. Less so that he’s directing a pointed look at Connor.

Nines tries not to smile at Connor’s look of consternation as they both comply. Authentic Illinois licenses, printed in a Plano DMV. The bartender - // MACY, STEPHEN L. age: 43 // \- glances over the identification too fast to have possibly taken dates of birth into account. He shoves them back across the sticky laminate. “What you want?”

Nines glances over the liquor shelf, which is little more than a bookshelf propped against the wall. A two months expired liquor license has been framed and mounted behind the six bottles that have been esteemed to be top shelf. “Glenlivet,” Nines says. “Neat.”

Stephen L. Macy’s bland stare turns Connor’s way. “Vodka, please.”

“Neat?”

Connor shrugs, and nods.

The bartender’s eyebrows go up and stay up, but he passes both drinks their way, accepts folded bills in return. “You want to shoot pool, it’s $5 each.”

“Oh, we’ll just watch for now,” Connor says. “Thank you.”

Connor settles onto a stool, elbows resting on the bar. Takes a testing sip of the vodka. Mimes an authentic grimace, lips peeling back from his teeth.

“You don’t actually _enjoy_ vodka, do you?” Nines says, elitist enough to draw a bored look from the next pool table over.

“Do you enjoy Glenlivet?” Connor retorts.

Nines considers; lining up the chemical compositions, vodka’s simple ethanol hydrates alongside whiskey’s more complex flavorings; polythenes, tannins, picolines, amongst others. “It’s more interesting than vodka,” he decides.

He makes a face as he takes his first sample, dropping into wireless: > _They’ve watered it down 12.4%._

>> _Good place for a game, then,_ Connor answers in bright sunburst tones.

> _It’s charming,_ Nines answers dryly.

>> _I chose it for the ambience._

> _You chose it for the No Androids Allowed sign on the door._

Connor smiles to himself, and lifts his drink.

Connor watches the patrons; Nines watches Connor. Despite the exaggerated tilts of his wrist, he takes relatively small sips of vodka. Keeping his eyes on the hockey game on the TV. Measuring his time, marking his place as a bored out-of-towner, engaging Nines in small, meaningless small talk at measured intervals. He finishes the first vodka, and orders a second; he begins ramping up his inebriation protocols, bringing a flush to his face and an ease to his movements.

The patrons at the tables occasionally break away to refill their pitchers. They lean on the bar a generous distance away. Most of the humans pass Connor and Nines sideways glances on their approach, or as they leave. Particularly when Connor slips in some airy comment about this strip mall dungeon being the only bar in town.

The patron that doesn’t look their way at all - a blond woman, short and stern of face - is the one Connor chooses. Nines sends him a preemptive, > _Good luck._ Teasing, largely; he noticed Connor’s mark immediately.

Connor answers in greens and blues, a casual arrogance. >> _What do I need luck for?_

He lets the woman return to her table. Three and a half minutes later, he walks their way. “Do you mind if I watch?” he asks. They shrug. Some look curious; some look greedy. Connor is dressed like a wealthy, if disheveled, college student. He smiles, unperturbed by their obvious tension. Overconfident, oblivious, or some drunken mix of the two.

All Connor’s usual tactics. They play to their strengths; Nines errs towards overconfident arrogance, and usually makes far less. Pride is a powerful motivator; but humans also love an easy target.

At the next buy-in, Connor removes a twenty from his money clip and adds it to the pot, taking a pool cue from the previous player.

He loses the first game. He maneuvers clumsily behind the cue, missing the ball far more than he lands. He scratches three times, leaving him badly behind. But in all his blundering, he was idly setting a stage; in the final round of play, he sends Nines the trajectory and velocity that would have let him clear the field of his remaining billiards in a single strike. In reality, he misses his target by 5 inches and pockets the cue ball a fourth time. His opponent cracks her first smile of the game.

> _I don’t think this is an intended use for our preconstruction software._

>> _It’s not the most questionable thing we’ve used preconstructions for_ , Connor teases in return. Nines smiles to himself, turning his attention back to the hockey game.

The other player pockets the eight-ball on his next turn. Connor throws two twenties down with the next game, and proceeds to lose by an even wider margin. He accepts three beers from sympathetic players, which requires three trips to the bathroom simply to remove the excess fluid from his reservoir; he returns with his motor coordination ratcheted down further and further each time. 

Leaning more heavily on the pool cue, weight shifted onto one heel. Resting his forearms on the table more and more as he lines the cue up.

Ensuring an excellent view of the roll of his hips as he leans back to take a shot.

Nines keeps the majority of his attention on the television, but not quite enough to miss Connor glancing his way. > _Is that strictly necessary?_

Connor catches his tongue between his teeth, miming a drifting focus as he chases the cue ball with three, four shifts of the cue. He finally shoots, and misses. He lets the long angles of his fingers linger around the cue before he rises back up and reaches for his beer.

>> _I don’t know what you’re referring to._

On his next turn, there is a perfectly serviceable angle on the far side of the table, an easy shot on the 6. Connor ignores it, tracing his hand along the felt trim until he has his back to Nines.

He bends slow over the table, and Nines resists the urge to roll his eyes. (That would require looking away.)

It’s an exceptional shot. The opponents around the table crow their surprise and approval, slapping him on the back. An exceptional shot, too early in the night; but that’s not why Connor took it. He _took it_ because it required a stretch that perfectly outlines the curve of his ass. The hem of his shirt rises as he strikes the ball home, revealing the pale contours of his lower back.

Nines intervenes on his own coding to reduce the flush in his cheeks, hiding behind his drink as he does so. > _You brat._

A warm note of pleasure.

For Connor, half the game is the humans; the rest is Nines.

It’s all well and good. Connor knows that he’ll be paid back in full, later. Nines is idly considering discreet options for following Connor into the bathroom (one hand pressing him to the wall and the other just there, following the divot of his spine north, as he parts Connor’s legs with his thigh一) when the man leans against the counter beside him and asks: “Your brother advertising something, or what?”

Nines blinks languidly in the man’s direction. // ROBERSON, KEVIN S. Age: 24 //

“Something,” Nines answers, finishing the last of his scotch. He upends the glass on the wood of the bar. A polite signal of dismissal, he hopes.

Too polite, apparently. Roberson only smiles. Lecherous, but also drunk. “’cause I’d certainly be buying一” He drifts off, content to leave this to the imagination.

“He has expensive tastes,” Nines notes.

Roberson snorts. “Then he’s shaking his ass in the wrong shithole.” Whistles, low and appreciative. “Don’t mind the view, though. God, what a slut.”

That last comment seals his fate.

Nines gives him a look of brotherly disgust that’s more than enough to dissuade further conversation. Roberson shrugs, lifts his hand in apology and finishes his beer in three ambitious gulps.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to note the slight shift in the barstool next to him (or the slight motion of Nines’ heel that accompanies it). He sets the empty pint glass down, turns, and tangles his foot in the stool. He brings the barstool with him as he strikes first his knees, then his face on the threadbare carpet.

Nines stares for a second: amusement, feigned surprise. Scattered applause breaks out across the room, calls of ‘ _Strike-out!_ ’ and ‘ _Hang him up, barkeep, he’s done_ ’. Connor tosses Nines a brief, querulous look over his pool cue, but doesn’t let his swaying focus waver long from his lane.

When the man begins to properly moan, Nines drops to grasp at his elbow. He lifts him back to his feet and uprights the stool in a single motion, offering empty platitudes of, “You alright? You should sit down. Drink some water.”

The man sheepishly acquiesces, both hands grasping at the reddening carpet burn on his face. He’s blinking back tears, as an outburst of “No fucking way” explodes from Connor’s direction. Entering the final game, then. 

Kevin Roberson has his forehead dropped to the bar by the time Connor gives his pool cue away to another patron and sways back towards Nines, one hand up to wave away the outcry of _Come on, one more round_ and _You lucky piece of shit._

Connor returns to Nines with a decent fold of winnings. >> _$567_ , he sends along with a note of a shrug. Not their highest night. The barkeep feigns disinterest in the sizable gratuity Connor leaves behind, but he folds a hand over the bills when the other patron at the bar sizes it up.

“I don’t think you made any friends,” Nines notes. The defeated gaggle hang on their pool cues, watching Connor dourly.

“You did,” Connor says, dropping a hand on the drunk’s shoulder. Kevin moans, but doesn’t lift his head. “He alright?”

“Sobering up,” Nines answers, and moves towards the door.

Connor follows along, keeping to his swaying . He bumps an elbow into Nines, steadying himself as they move back into an April drizzle.

Over wireless, he’s sharp and curious: >> _What did he do?_

Nines only hums, pulling his collar up. The drizzle gathers in beads on the cars, glistening under the mist-obscured streetlights. Their truck is in the first aisle, but Nines moves past it as he reaches into his pocket for the key fob. He presses it once. A small sedan down the third row flashes twice in greeting.

Connor blinks. His walk straightens out of his drunk shamble, curiosity winning over the feigned inebriation.

>> _Not thinking of switching vehicles, are you?_

> _No._

>> _What are you一_

Connor reads the sedan’s plates, follows the digital trail to a registration and matches it against the face he’d scanned and stored as soon as Nines helped the man to his feet. >> _Oh._

Nines sends a portion of audio recording along: ‘ _Your brother advertising something, or what?’_

Connor’s eyebrows rise before he smiles, mischievous. >> _Jealous?_

Yellowed displeasure. > _He was being rude._

Nines doesn’t have to open the car to access it; there’s enough circuitry running through the frame for him to interface with. He only stole the keys so he could toss them into the driver’s seat - mockingly visible - and lock the doors. He keeps his hand curled around the door handle as he accesses the car’s programming.

Connor leans against the car, laying a hand flat to watch him sift through its algorithms. Nines makes subtle manipulations: reduced charging efficiency to limit the vehicle’s range, a minor adjusted to the speedometer to travel 3.5 mph less than reported; shifted calibrations in climate conditioning, and a minor alteration in the saved home and work locations to addresses adjacent, but not quite on par. The next time Kevin Roberson summons the car to his workplace, it will arrive seven blocks to the northeast and refuse all further clarifications regarding the owner’s current location. It will wait patiently for him to walk.

After a few seconds of observation, Connor adds a few touches of his own: coaxing the sunroof into opening a few centimeters in the event of rain; encouraging the entertainment system to lapse into Korean on every third Monday; rigging the tire pressure sensors to present underinflation warnings once every 35 minutes, but only outside of maintenance and diagnostic mode. The last amuses Nines enough that he corrects all the alterations to accommodate this. The vehicle will perform perfectly within a 5-mile radius of any dealership.

>> _Suitable punishment?_ Connor says as he breaks the connection, looking pleased.

Nines catches him by the hip, bearing him back into the lecher’s car long enough to taste the last of the lager and cleaner vodka burn on his lips.

> _Suitable,_ Nines answers. He encircles an arm around Connor’s waist to pull him away. They leave a smeared outline in the mist gathered on the human’s car; two handprints, and the curve of Connor’s back.

>> _You got my clothes wet_ , Connor complains, leaning into him.

Nines plucks at the damp edge of his shirt, dipping a hand up to rest against the warmth of his skin. > _That can be amended._

Amusement and anticipation, edged in reds and golds. _> > You’re incorrigible._

For once, Nines is in absolute agreement.


End file.
